AT the foot of the hill on which stands the Campidoglio at Rome, and close beneath the ruins that now encumber the Tarpeian rock, runs a mean-looking alley, called the Viccolo D'Orsi, but better known to the police as the "Viccolo dei Ladri," or "Thieves' Corner"-the epithet being, it is said, conferred in a spirit the very reverse of calumnious.

Long and straggling, and too narrow to admit of any but foot-passengers, its dwellings are marked by a degree of poverty and destitution even greater than such quarters usually exhibit. Rudely constructed of fragments taken from ancient temples and monuments, richly-carved architraves and finelycut friezes are to be seen embedded amidst masses of crumbling masonry, and all the evidences of a cultivated and enlightened age mingled up with the squalor and misery of present want.

Not less suggestive than the homes themselves are the population of this dreary district; and despite rags, and dirt, and debasement, there they arethe true descendants of those who once, with such terrible truth, called themselves "Masters of the World." Well set-on heads of massive mould, bold and prominent features, finelyfashioned jaws, and lips full of vigour and sensual meaning, are but the base counterfeits of the traits that meet the eye in the Vatican. No effort of imaVOL LI.-NO. CCCI.

gination is needed to trace the kindred. In every gesture, in their gait, even in the careless ease of their ragged drapery, you can mark the traditionary signs of the once haughty citizen.

With a remnant of their ancient pride, these people reject all hired occupation, and would scorn, as an act of slavery, the idea of labour; and, as neither trade nor calling prevails amongst them, their existence would seem an inscrutable problem, save on the hypothesis which dictated the popular title of this district. But without calling to our aid this explanation, it must be remembered how easily life is supported by those satisfied with its meanest requirements, and especially in a land so teeming with abundance. A few roots-a handful of chestnuts a piece of black bread-a cup of wine, scarcely more costly than so much water-these are enough to maintain existence; and in their gaunt and famished faces you can see that little beyond this is accomplished.

About the middle of this alley, and over a doorway of sculptured marble, stands a small statue of Vesta, which, by the aid of a little paint, a crown of gilt paper, and a candle, some pious hands had transformed into a Madonna. A little beneath this, and on a black board, scrawled with letters of unequal size, is the word "Trattoria," or eating-house.

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Nothing, indeed, can be well further from the ordinary aspect of a tavern than the huge vaulted chamber, almost destitute of furniture, and dimly lighted by the flame of a single lamp. A few loaves of coarse black bread, some wicker-bound flasks of common wine, and a wooden bowl containing salad, laid out upon a table, constituting all that the place affords for entertainment. Some benches are ranged on either side of the table, and two or three more are gathered around a little iron tripod, supporting a pan of lighted charcoal, and over which now two figures are to be seen cowering down to the weak flame, while they conversed in low whispers together.

It is a cold and dreary night of December; the snow has fallen not only on the higher Apennines, but lies thickly over Albano, and is even seen in drifts along the Campagna. The wailing wind sighs mournfully through the arches of the Colosseum and amongst the columns of the old Forum, while at intervals, with stronger gusts, it sweeps along the narrow alley, wafting on high the heavy curtain that closes the doorway of the Trattoria, and leaving its occupants for the time in total darkness.

Twice had this mischance occurred; and now the massive table is drawn over to the door, to aid in forming a barricade against the storm.

""Tis better not to do it, Fra Luke," said a woman's voice, as the stout friar arranged his breastwork. "You know what happened the last time there was a door in the same place.”

"Never mind, Mrs. Mary," replied the other; "they're not so ready with their knives as they used to be, and, moreover, there's few of them will be out to-night."

Both spoke in English, and with an accent which told of an Irish origin; and now, as they reseated themselves beside the brazier, we have time to observe them. Faint as the flicker of that flame is, it is enough to show that the woman belongs not to the land where now we see her. Scarcely above forty years of age, but looking older from the effects of sorrow, her regular features and deeply-set eyes bear traces of once beauty. Two braids of rich brown hair have escaped beneath her humble widow's cap, and fallen partly over her cheeks, and, as he tries to arrange them, her taper

and delicately-formed fingers even more strongly still, proclaim her of gentle blood; her dress is of the coarsest woollen stuff worn by the peasantry, but little cuffs of crape show how, in all her poverty, she had endeavoured to maintain some semblance to a garb of mourning. The man, whose age might be fifty-seven or eight, is tall, powerfully built, and although encumbered by the long dress of a friar, shows in every motion that he is still possessed of considerable strength and activity. The closely cut hair over his forehead and temples give something of coarseness to the character of his round full head; but his eyes are mild and gentle-looking, and there is an unmistakable goodnature in his large and thick-lipped mouth.

If there is an air of deference to his companion in the way he seats himself a little distance from the "brazier," there is, more markedly still, a degree of tender pity in the look that he bestows on her.

"I want to read you the petition, Mrs. Mary," said he, drawing a small scroll of paper from his pocket, and unfolding it before the light. "Tis right you'd hear it, and see if there's any thing you'd like different-any thing mispleasing you, or that you'd wish left out." She sighed heavily, but made no answer. He waited for a second or two and then resumed : "Tisn't the like of me-a poor friar, ignorant as I am-knows well how to write a thing of the kind, and, moreover, to one like him; but maybe the time's coming when you'll have grander and better friends."

"Oh, no, no!" cried she, passionately; "not better, Fra Luke-not better; that they can never be !"

'Well, well, better able to serve you," said he, as though ashamed that any question of himself should have intruded into the discussion; "and that they may easily be. But here's the writing; and listen to it now, for it must be all copied out to-night, and ready for to-morrow morning. The cardinal goes to him at eleven. There's to be some grandees from Spain, and maybe Portugal, at twelve. The Scottish lords come after that; and then Kelly tells me he'll see any that likes, and that has letters or petitions to give him. That's the time for us, then; for ye see Kelly doesn't

like to give it himself: he doesn't know what the Prince would say, and how he'd take it; and natural enough, he'd not wish to lose the favour he's in by any mistake. That's the word he said, and sure enough it sounded a strange one for helping a friend and a country woman; so that I must contrive to go myself, and God's my judge, if I wouldn't rather face a drove of the wild cattle out there on the Campagna, than stand up before all them grand people!" The very thought of such an ordeal seemed too much for the poor friar, for he wiped his forehead with the loose cuff of his robe, and for some minutes appeared totally lost in reflection; with a low sigh he at last resumed: "Here it is, now; and I made it short, for Kelly said, 'if it's more than one side of a sheet, he'll never look at it, but just say "Another time, my good friend, another time. This is an affair that requires consideration; I'll direct Monsignore to attend to it.' When he says that, it's all over with you,' says Kelly. Monsignore Bargalli hates every one of us-Scotch, English, and Irish alike, and is always beiying and calumniating us; but if he reads it himself, there's always a chance that he may do something, and tha's the reason I made it as short as I could." With this preface, he flattened out the somewhat crumpled piece of paper, and read aloud :

""To his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, the true-born descendant of the House of Stuart, and rightful heir to the Crown of England, the humble and dutiful petition of Mary Fitzgerald, of Cappa-Glyn, in the county Kildare, Ireland

"Eh, what?" cried he, suddenly; for a scarcely audible murmur proclaimed something like dissent or correction.

"I was thinking, Fra Luke," said she, mildly, "if it wouldn't be better not to say 'of Cappa-Glyn.' 'Tis gone away from us now for ever, and and

"What matter; it was your's once. Your ancestors owned it for hundreds and hundreds of years; and if you're not there now, neither is he himself where he ought to be."

The explanation seemed conclusive, and he went on:

"County Kildare, Ireland. Ay! May it please your illustrious royal highness, the only sister of Grace

Geraldine, now in glory with the saints, implores your royal favour for the orphan boy that survives her. Come from a long way off, in great distress, mind and body, she has no friend but your highness and the Virgin Mary-that was well known never deserted nor forsook them that stood true to your royal cause-and being in want, and having no shelter nor refuge, and seeing that Gerald himself, with the blood in his veins that he has, and worthy of being what your royal highness knows he is.'

"That's mighty delicately expressed, ye see; not to give offence," said the friar, with a most complacent smile at his dexterity.

"Hasn't as much as a rag of clothes under his student's gown, nor a pair of shoes, barring the boots that the sub-rector lent him; without a shirt to his back, or a cross in his pocket; may at a minute's warning be sent away from the college, by reason of his great distress-having no home to go to, nor any way to live, but to starve and die in nakedness, bringing everlasting disgrace on your royal house, and more misery to her who subscribes herself, in every humility and contrite submission, your royal highness's most dutiful, devoted, and till death release her from sorrows, ever attached servant,

"MARY FITZGERALD.""

"I didn't put any address," said the Fra, "for, you see, this isn't one of the genteelest quarters of the town. Here they are, Mrs. Mary-here they are!" cried he, suddenly, and while he spoke, the hasty tramp of many feet, and the discordant voices of people talking noisily, was heard from without.

"Sangue dei Santi !" shouted a rude voice, "is this a fortress we have here, or a public tavern?" and, at the same instant, a strong hand seized the table in the doorway and overwhelmed it on the floor.

The fellow who thus made good his entrance, was tall and muscular, his stature seeming even greater from the uncouth covering of goat-skins, which in every conceivable fashion he wore around him, while in his hand he carried a long lance, terminating with a goad, such as are used by the cattle-drivers of the Campagna.